


The End

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-07
Updated: 2006-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of all things, House makes a decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is what's commonly referred to as an Apocalypse!Fic. Things are falling apart and that centre sure ain't holding. This is a short, melancholy ficlet.

_**Houseficlet: The End**_  
 **STATUS:** Crossposted to [](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**house_wilson**](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/)  
 **TITLE:** The End  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House/Wilson  
 **RATING:** Soft "R".  
 **WARNINGS:** Major character death.  
 **SPOILERS:** No. It's just a story.  
 **SUMMARY:** At the end of all things, House makes a decision.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will. Also do not lay any claims to the great U2, from whose song "Until the End of the World" the LJ cut verse is taken.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** I think this is what's commonly referred to as an Apocalypse!Fic. Things are falling apart and that centre sure ain't holding. This is a short, melancholy ficlet.  
 **BETA: Silverjackal,** who whispered, _"International."_

  


  
 **The End**

  
It's funny, House thinks. By the time Wilson gets around to dying, half the world's population is already gone, with untold billions soon to follow. No one will ever know the final numbers. There won't be anyone left to count.

He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward to look more closely at the sick man in the isolated hospital bed. The vinyl of his HazMat suit squeaks, reminding him of Steve McQueen, and House smiles just a little. The rat is still disgustingly healthy, feasting on Purina Rat Chow every day and getting fatter. House tries not to think of all the other rats in the world, devouring the quick and the dead alike in the inferno.

Wilson hasn't moved, so House sits quietly. Wilson hasn't moved in a _while,_ not since a few hours ago when he called out for his brother, his mother, and House, in that order. Except he hadn't said "House." He'd said "Greg", the name stark and unfamiliar to House's ear, issuing from Wilson's throat in a painful gasp. He'd taken Wilson's hand. He couldn't tell if Wilson knew.

Everything had fallen apart so quickly. The terrorists had chosen their methods well. It had been a stroke of pure genius to target the two largest international medical conferences of the year, meeting in London and Tokyo during the same week that summer.

Wilson had gone to the London convention. Even now, weeks after the event, no one really knew how they'd done it. An airborne agent through the hotels' vents, something dry and powdered spread at the conference halls -- it didn't matter anymore. The attending doctors in England and Japan had gone home, and from there they had infected their families, their patients, and their hospitals.

The fallout had been devastating. Symptoms had been delayed, not occurring until it was too late to make an immediate connection. Valuable time had been lost. The effects had piled up, one on top of another, until the cascade failure overwhelmed the system.

It was the Plague. The Four Horsemen. The all-devouring destroyer of worlds.

Basic utilities had collapsed. Governments had fallen. Martial law was paramount, and separate regions of the United States had begun declaring themselves independent enclaves. There were whispered reports of people being rounded up, of camps in the New Jersey countryside.

House's team was dead. Cuddy was dead. Princeton-Plainsboro was full of ghosts.

After all that's happened, House doesn't know how or why he's still alive.

Wilson stirs in his bed and whimpers. House holds his hand and rubs his thumb on Wilson's palm, the part that hasn't blistered yet.

Wilson had been young and healthy. Maybe that's why he'd lasted so long. It pisses House off that this last mystery will never be solved.

Maybe he'll pick up some beer; pop an old detective movie in the DVD player, the stuff that Wilson likes --

House shakes himself. Drifting again. He's been doing that more often lately; not surprising considering he's probably had about an hour's sleep in the last seventy-two.

Wilson moves again, his eyes opening, fixing on House. It makes House shiver when he does that, since Wilson is blind now.

"Greg," Wilson breathes. "Greg."

And then he doesn't move again.

House sits quietly for a moment, thinking. He lets go of Wilson's hand and strips off his own HazMat helmet.

Leaning down, he presses his lips against Wilson's still-warm mouth.

Maybe there's enough still there to do the job.

  
~ fin


End file.
